


A Generous Donation

by xDomino009x



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Caning, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Child Abuse, Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Cuddles, Dresses, F/F, Fluff, Lady Mantillon is a bad, Manipulation, Mild Blood, Money, Politics, Poverty, Random prompt, Royalty, Scheming, Set before Celene is Empress, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-06 02:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12202227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xDomino009x/pseuds/xDomino009x
Summary: In Orlais everyone has to deal with their own struggles, from Emperor to servant.Briala needs help to raise money for her people in the alienages, and Celene will help but for a small price, while Celene is busy herself with her own schemes, plotting with Lady Mantillon and Duke Prosper to further her own political standing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Been trying to get something written and then this happened, so enjoy small Briala and Celene
> 
> this was meant to be just a one shot but then another chapter happened and another so... it's kinda finished but there might be more to come because I get random inspiration sometimes from nowhere

 “You want me to donate to your cause?” she had asked, her lips curled in a sickly sweet smile and her head tilted in just the right way that Briala could have almost imagined the princess was doing this all for a good cause, “Earn it.” There had been a brief pause while the girl smoothed out a crease in her dress and flicked some lint from the back of her white glove. “Dinner. Wear something… pretty.” Briala didn’t like the way her eyes had flitted down her body and back up to her eyes.

She had scowled, she remembered shouting “You’re a monster,” across the chamber they’d been hiding in and watching the princess, for all her grace and tact, had simply shrugged and cast her a nonchalant look over her shoulder as she had walked away.

“And you need the money,” Celene replied coolly as she had passed through the door and left Briala alone.

In hindsight Briala supposes the princess had wanted to leave quickly to see to Lady Mantillon’s lesson and not be late. There’s no one who can put fear into that girl’s heart like that woman. Briala knows why, has seen the way she’d guard herself from even the gentlest touches after visiting her. Lady Mantillon is a piece of work, but it isn’t something unheard of for a bard master to be cruel to her protégés. Cruelty in place of kindness.

Briala wishes she hadn’t spoken so rashly to her mistress, but what was said is said now and all she can do is wait and regret the slamming of her door while she lays face-down on her bed. She’s still in her servants’ clothes, her dress crumpling beneath her and her hair falling from its pins. What’s really on her mind though is trying to get that money from her stuck up princess, it didn’t matter how she loves Celene the girl is spoiled and stuck up and so many things Briala had been brought up to hate. She turns a blind eye to the abuse of her people, make Briala beg her for help now she needed it because it seemed to amuse her. The plight of the elves is a bargaining chip to Celene, nothing more.

Briala knows she doesn’t want to be used like this, but what choice does she have if she wants to help her people, even if the princess gave her just one golden sovereign it would mean so much to the downtrodden living in the alienage and the city slums. If she doesn’t go along with this, she would return to them empty handed, and she refuses to be the one to say she failed them.

It takes her another ten minutes to decide she should be doing something with her spare time. Spare time has always been a loaded word for the servants of the household, maybe it is the same for all households, but by free time her mother tells her they mean time for her to do chores other than attending to the princess. Like cleaning her rooms.

It takes her another five minutes to get off the bed and start tidying. She sees to her own room first, before heading through the doors into Celene’s rooms. She has very few belongings, although she says she lives in the lap of luxury compared to the other servants. She has her own hairbrush and her own dresses and even a dressing table and wash stand that she shares with no one else. It’s really quite something apparently, and then she has free reign to wander through the princess’ royal quarters whenever she wishes, whenever Celene is away.

Once she is done with her own room she walks to Celene’s, with a brush in hand ready to sweep the floors. It is a menial job, one she has been told she shouldn’t have to do if the lower servants are doing their jobs. But she knows her place, she knows how good she has it being right at the ear of the princess, and she chooses to work below her station and sweep the already perfect floors. They need waxing too really, but she doesn’t have the time for that.

The door opens with hardly a sound.

Another servant walks in, dressed in the clothes of a maid and with a dusty sheet thrown over her shoulder. Briala watches her as she goes from the door to the fireplace and begins to scrape out the ashes with what looks like a small hoe from the garden. Briala doesn’t know what it’s actually called. The servant scowls as she finishes up her job, probably peeved that Briala is doing lower servants work.

It is late afternoon by the time Briala feels she has done enough to call a solid day’s work, and even then she feels like she has more to accomplish in her chores.

She had received word from a very confused servant that the princess would not be needing her help this evening getting ready for the ball, instead another maid would be taking care of it. Of course, the servant had thought it was to give Briala a break and thought Celene quite generous, but Briala knows better. She goes to her own wardrobe and rummages through her selection of dresses.

She has five.

Two for in the week, one for at the weekend, one for prayer at the chantry and the fifth was for special occasions where she would be requested to be by the princess’ side at whatever event she might be attending. This is the one she pulls from her closet, holding it up to herself and smiling.

Celene had it commissioned for her several months ago, to fit the fashions and to make sure she looked as good as she could when she was beside the royal family. And Celene had told her to wear something pretty after all.

It was rather plain, although in Orlais ‘plain’ is subject to interpretation and a silvery silk dress with lace down the sleeves and back, probably worn with a golden mask to bring out the golden embroidery down the sides of the dress that would accentuate her already slim elven waist probably isn’t plain by Fereldan standards. But compared to whatever the princess would be wearing it would be nothing short of drab.

She pulls it on, not sure what she should do afterwards. There’s no way she can wander the halls in this dress, not without being stopped, so she sits in her room and waits. She assumes Celene will at least send some kind of message when she wants to meet her, and where would be helpful too.

So she waits. And waits.


	2. Chapter 2

It is very early in the morning by the time Celene finally sees her, curled up and fast asleep on top of her rough blankets, in her finest gown no less. The princess sighs and shakes her head, smiling and walking softly back to her own rooms. 

When she returns a moment later it is with the top cover from her bed. She throws it carefully over the sleeping elf and tucks it around her shoulders. For a moment she sits on the edge of Briala’s bed, removes the remaining pins from her hair, and brushes her curls from her eyes. She could wake her, make up some silly excuse why she needs help now, but she is already changed and bathed and ready for bed. Truth be told she just wants to talk to her after her long day.

Instead she leaves her be, making sure she is comfortable and warm before returning quietly to her room. She makes one last trip to Briala’s side, leaving a small pile of shining sovereigns stacked on the table beside her bed before leaving and getting into her own bed. 

It is considerably colder in her bed than usual with the thick cover gone, but she will survive the night she supposes. It’s only a little cold after all.

She doesn’t go to sleep right away. She is the head of her household, why should she need to sleep at a reasonable time? Besides, she doesn’t sleep well anymore anyways. She’s hardly a woman, but already the fear of the night and the dark things that linger in the shadows haunt her, in ways they never did when she was a child.

The dark had been scary when she was five, and then her father had shown her is was all in her head. Now she’s not so sure he was right.

It gives her comfort knowing her handmaiden and friend is in the next room, just through a slightly ajar door. Briala is only a shout away. She closes her eyes, thinking of that, and finds her mind summoning all kinds of excuses she will tell the girl in the morning. She stood her up, after Briala actually put the effort in and got changed. Maybe Celene should just tell her the truth; Lady Mantillon had held her back after the ball, but then she would just worry. 

She sighs and turns over in bed, shivering a little as the breeze from outside drifts in through the cracked-open window.

In the morning she is woken by Briala, who seems quiet and subdued as they begin their morning routine. Briala has found the money, that much Celene is sure of, but she’s still upset about being made to wait, about her duties being given to someone else. Celene understands, but she can’t let herself get bogged down with making sure the girl is okay beyond simply asking her “How was your evening?”

Briala makes an offhand comment about getting her room organised and airing out her dresses. Celene can tell she’s bitter but decides not to call her out on it. She doesn’t need to, she’s got more important things to be doing at any rate. Briala can sit here and stew in her resentment for all she cares.

But she does care. 

“You’ll be late for your teaching, Mistress,” Briala reminded her flatly as she lingered at the door. The guard posted outside her room held the door for her. With a wave of her hand she commands the guard to shut the door, keeping the two of them shut up in her quarters. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t mind being late. What can she do that she hasn’t already?” She tries not to wince as she says it, not to think about what Mantillon would do to her if she did turn up late. Instead she takes Briala’s hand and leads her to the edge of the bed. At some point while she was admiring her reflection after getting dressed Briala must have brought the covers back through, since it’s laying smartly across her other sheets now. “You must have hated me last night.”

Briala doesn’t reply, just stares at her hand in Celene’s, her dark skin against the princess’ pale fingers. 

“Bria,” she whispers, turning the elf’s face towards her with her other hand, “I’m sorry. I don’t have an excuse,” she glances away for a split second and swallows, “I shouldn’t have stayed away all night.”

They don’t say much more, but Celene pulls Briala against her, lets the girl rest her head against her shoulder and holds her tight even though it hurts when she wraps an arm around her waist. She holds back the hiss of pain that would give her away as Briala cuddles close to her. Instead she just mutters, “Bria, you’ll crease my dress.” She’s laughing as she says it, tears stinging her eyes.

She’s thankful Briala doesn’t ask her about the way her eyes are watering. But she does loosen her grip.

“You need to leave, I don’t want you in trouble for my sake,” Briala tells her, standing and trying to tug the princess to her feet. Celene accepts the truth, sighs and runs her hands down the velvet of her dress. She hates that velvet is in fashion now, in the middle of summer as well. It’s so heavy, and warm, she feels like she’s suffocating whenever she sits in the incense filled room with Lady Mantillon.

Briala knocks on the door and waits for it to be opened by the guard. She curtsies as Celene brushes by her, their eyes meeting for a second before the princess is walking down a corridor and turning a corner. 

Celene passes servants and visiting nobility with hardly a glance, an occasional nod of her head when someone of real importance passes her by. She walks with a refined sort of grace until she reaches one of the doors of her household. Here she stiffens and takes a deep breath. Her knuckles have barely even grazed the wood of the door before a cracked voice calls through to her.

“Come in, girl.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to make sure you know, this chapter is not fun. Tags for Child Abuse, Cuts, Corporal Punishment...  
> If you want to skip this chapter I have a summary down in the end chapter notes which will skim over the important details without any of the abuse.

The door creaks open as the princess pushes. The Lady Dowager sits impatiently, puts aside the letters she had been writing to the aging Emperor and waits still and silent behind her desk for Celene to come in. Her desk is covered with neat piles of papers and pots filled with ink and quills. And a cruel edged dagger. It is all laid out in an orderly way, the blades meticulously shines, the quills clean of ink.

She watches as Celene walks in and takes one look at the table, at the daggers, watches her cheeks pale beneath her blush and golden mask. The Lady laughs at her, a cruel smile spreading across her face as she stands up.

“You’re late, Princess,” she hisses, almost spitting the last word like some kind of venomous snake. Celene visibly flinches from her own title and again the Dowager laughs. She knows Celene hates her laugh, the girl made the mistake of telling her once.

Lady Mantillon takes some time to circle her, almost like a bird of prey waiting for the right time to go in for the kill, watches her through her silver mask while Celene tries not to shrink from her predatory glances, from the judgement that radiates from her like a dark aura. Celene is still young, young enough that the idea of talking back to the Dowager has never occurred to her, that she is submissive and obedient and will do anything to avoid whatever punishments Mantillon has in her mind. 

“I’m sorry, I had to talk with Briala.” she stammers quickly, the truth being her best policy when dealing with this woman. Anyone else, even her parents had it been them asking, she would have lied to, Mantillon knows this. She would have played the game as well as she could and tried to get away with her tardiness some other way. But with Mantillon, the fear of failure and disappointing her bard master outweighs all her other instincts.

The Lady Dowager nods slowly, walking back to her desk and running her finger along the sharp blade of a dagger. She hears Celene shift behind her. “I don’t want excuses from you. I want punctuality.” She stops to sit down, to pull a piece of parchment and a quill to her and turn a dagger so the handle is facing Celene. “Maybe we should be rid of that elf once and for all if you find her so distracting.”

“No!” The word comes out almost as a shout, sudden and unexpected. Mantillon raises an eyebrow at the sudden outburst but says nothing. Just motions to the chair on the other side of her desk and watches the Princess’ every move as she goes to take it. Celene moves too carefully, with less grace than fear of being undignified. The Dowager writes a note on her parchment, making a tally of mistakes the princess made beside her criticisms. But this is not a lesson where Celene will not be corrected on the spot. 

She takes up the dagger and walks behind the girl, pressing the tip of the blade against her back, right against her shoulder blade. It makes Celene jump, her back arches away from the cold steel but Mantillon grabs her shoulder in an iron grasp and pulls her back against it. Any harder and the blade might rip her gown, might slip right through her corset and between her ribs. The thought makes Celene tense, but makes her malleable in Mantillon’s hands. “Thats better, sit straight. Chin up.” The blade is cold against Celene’s neck in a flash of silver. 

Mantillon feels is shudder in her grip as Celene swallows.

She let’s the sharp tip nic Celene’s jaw as she removes it. The girl winces, but the cut isn't even deep enough to draw more than a bead of blood to the surface of her skin. “So what do you say when you’re late, Princess?”

“I’m-”

The dagger stabs deep into the leather seat of the chair Celene is sitting on, right beside her thigh, cutting easily through the velvet of her dress that lays splayed across the seat. She jumps as Mantillon corrects her, tearing the gown further before the Dowager pulls the dagger back. A Princess doesn’t apologise for being late, a princess simply isn’t late for anything. Especially a princess who hopes to take over from the Emperor one day. As an Empress Celene will have to do better, she has much to learn and not much time to learn it in. She is sixteen in the coming weeks, soon to be a woman. Not only will she be head of the household, Mantillon intends for her to be head of the Empire, ruling as a shining beacon, and a mark of her skill of the game that she could teach this girl to become a leader.

“Your precious elf is only going to hold you back,” Mantillon explains, finally deciding to treat Celene like the young woman she was instead of a misbehaving student, “You know that don’t you?”

“I don’t think I do,” the girl replies coolly, and Mantillon smiles as she defends her handmaiden. Of course, it is futile. If Mantillon tells her to be rid of Briala, really tells her, Celene will do it without second thought. They both know, and Mantillon loves the hold she has over the Princess. Maybe it will continue even when Celene is sitting on the golden throne. Even though Mantillon has the ear of many an Orlesian noble nothing would compare to having the ear of the Empress, especially one so young an inexperienced. “I feel Briala is a great help to me.”

“You may think as you wish, Princess, but she will ruin you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Celene argues, steeling herself for the storm that is to come, “And if you wish to continue this line of discussion I must ask you leave my estate.”

Mantillon, instead of rising to her feet with dagger or cane in hand laughs and shakes her head. She’s impressed, and she notices the smile that flickers across Celene’s lips but chooses to ignore it. Let her have her small victory for now. Instead Mantillon just settles into her seat and taps her foot a few times as though she’s irritated. Celene can read her, she must be able to by now after their lessons, she must be able to tell that the victory is only happening because the Dowager is allowing it. But the princess seems content with her pseudo victory.

They talk of nothing much for the rest of their meeting, until the end of the princess’ lesson.

“Rise with grace,” Mantillon snaps, forcing Celene back into her chair with hands on her shoulders. She reaches for the cane that stands propped against the desk leg and watches with an eagle eye as Celene tries again to get out of her chair.

“Remember elegance, poise, the entire court is watching every time you blink, every time you take a breath they will notice.”

Her chair scrapes faintly across the stone floor of the room and the cane cracks against the wooden back. The princess jumps at the noise and faces the wall behind the desk with wide eyes. It would be far easier in a banquet hall where she would have someone to lift the chair up and back for her as she rises, but Mantillon is convinced she must know how to do this alone if she ever wants to be an empress worth half a sovereign.

Celene lifts her own chair, pushes it back and sets it gently on the ground. The cane snaps over her knuckles, trapping them against the wood of chair arm for a split second. The pain comes on almost instantly, Mantillon can see it in the tears that spring to her eyes and the redness in her cheeks. Her knuckles go first white then very quickly a ruddy shade like spilled wine. 

“A princess does not slouch.”

Celene is crying silently, a few tears tracing wet paths through her powder and blush from under her mask. Mantillon watches them fall and the cane cracks hard against her back. Where the tip touches the princess’ dress the fabric tears, exposing patches of the corset she has beneath it, powder pink against the dark blue velvet. The tears stop coming as the third lash lands against her side. 

Mantillon is almost enjoying this. Almost. 

Celene regains control of herself and stands straight, walking from the room quickly and leaving the door open. She will pay for it in their next lesson, but Mantillon doesn't call her back. Instead she listens to the footsteps heavy on the flagstone flooring of the corridor as the princess runs back to her rooms. Celene is still not up to standard, but there is plenty of time to work on it even if she has to resort to more drastic measures.

The Dowager sighs and sits back at her desk, continuing her letter to Florian as she hums to herself and wonders if she will ever see Celene on his throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary:  
> Celene goes to visit Lady Mantillon for a lesson on how to be a lady and a bard. she's late, which earns her a scolding and threats. Mantillon tells Celene she should get rid of Briala since she's a distraction, a future Empress doesnt need elves friends. Celene disagrees, which gets her in more trouble. A while later the lesson ends with Celene storming out and heading back to her room and Lady Mantillon planning for their next lessons.


	4. Chapter 4

Briala sits by the empty fireplace, curled up in one of the two chairs set either side of a low table, reading. She’s just got to a good part in one of Celene’s favourite books. The princess has read it maybe six or seven times, but Briala has read it at least a dozen times. It’s a thick tome of a book that Celene let her borrow a few years ago. It used to be her father's. Now it is the princess’ and Briala feels honoured to be allowed to share the little world inside that story with her. It’s one of her favourite books too she supposes.

Its beautiful there, all rich forests and fantasy politics that Briala can understand even where Celene cannot. It’s part of why the elf is allowed to read the book; she’d sit and explain the rules and codes of this fantasy world that seemed so alike to their own but so different at the same time. Briala remembers fondly hiding under the covers with a mage light held close between them and reading late into the night. She loves it when Celene takes a moment to think of herself, when she stops. Its those moments that she’ll read aloud, let Briala listen to her voice and become lost in the way she weaves the world around her tongue.

The door opens with a bang and Briala snaps the book shut and drops it on the table with a clatter of china.

Celene storms through the room with a swish of dark blue, heading through into the next without a glance at Briala or the noise that the falling book had just made. The handmaiden can only watch as she strides through in a most undisciplined manner, wondering if she should leave her be. 

The double doors to the princess’ bedroom are left standing slightly ajar, and she can just about make out the dull thud of the girl falling into her covers and the soft sobbing that tells her she needs to make up her mind and fast.

“What did she do to you?” Briala asks as she walks after Celene, stopping to stand in the doorway as Celene continues to cry into her pillows without any acknowledgement that she’s even heard Briala. Her dress is ripped in three places, twice on her bodice and once in her skirts, there’s a spot of blood on her back and another on the collar of her gown. Briala already has her own ideas of what happened in that lesson.

“Nothing,” Celene mutters thickly into the duck feathers and silk, “ I’m fine, go back to your book.” Her voice is muffled and cracks halfway through her sentence. Briala doesn't buy it, something is wrong.

Instead of going back to her book, Celene’s book, as she was told Briala steps closer to the bed in a few careful steps and pushes the princess further. “Celene, you’re crying.” It’s obvious, but sometimes Celene doesn’t even notice when she’s crying. After her parents Briala would find her sitting by the window with tears running down her face and she wouldn't have realised. After Mantillon’s lessons it’s sometimes the same, although she suspects it is a much different pain that ails her princess at these times.

Celene turns her head so she can speak clearly and moves a hand to dry her eyes. Her blonde hair has come free from behind her golden mask, which lies discarded facedown on the marbled floor beside her nightstand, and is falling across her face. “It’s nothing.” Briala still isn’t convinced, but honestly she isn’t sure that Celene is trying to convince her and not herself. “Please just let it be nothing Bria,” she pleads

“She hurt you again?”

The elf perches on the edge of the bed, her hands finding Celene’s amongst the bundles of fabric. The princess is shaking, her fingers curl weakly into Briala’s. It seems to give her the strength to admit to what happened, since she shifts slightly and nods.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It takes Celene a while to answer, probably no nore than a minute or two but to Briala it drags on for at least ten minutes. She’s tempted to ask again, to push for a faster reply, but she holds her tongue while Celene turns around, seemingly not caring to keep her now ruined dress in a good condition. Celene sits on her feet, hands on her knees with Briala’s on top. After a few deep, shaking breaths Celene seems to get a grip on herself. She stops crying at least, although her eyes are still watery and red from it. “She… wants you gone Bria.” 

There is a silence between that at those words. Briala feels her heart hammer in her chest. Is this it? Has Celene come to tell her to pack her bags and find her own way in this world. Yes, Briala still has her parents, but that doesn’t mean she wants to go back to how things used to be. Would Celene let her work in the kitchens at least? Or maybe as a maid with her mother? That wouldn’t be so bad, she used to enjoy that kind of work. That was what she would have been doing now it the mother of the other young girl who was to become Celene’s handmaiden hadn’t been caught stealing. 

“I told her no,” Celene continues, swallowing hard and breaking Briala out of her frenzied thoughts of what she’d do if she wasn’t working for Celene. “I won’t let her take you away from me!” 

The girl throws her arms around Briala’s shoulders. It’s awkward, but comforting all at the same time. Celene is crying again, this time into her shoulder. Briala strokes a hand over her hair, over her flat human ears. “I know you won’t.”

“Don’t leave me okay?” Celene chokes from the safety of Briala’s arms. Briala shakes her head. She wouldn't dream of leaving, she can hardly even think about the idea without a panic rising in her. Celene pulls away from her, takes her shoulders and looks her very sternly in the eye. “Even if she tells you, you’re to stay here with me, do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t leave you Celene.”

Celene hugs her again, wrapping her arms around Briala’s shoulders and occasionally sniffing as though she’s trying not to cry again. “I love you Briala,” she whispers into her neck, moving quickly to kiss her cheek before cuddling back up to her shoulder. 

It makes Briala feel warm inside to hear those words. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

She’s naked in front of her again, and she feels a little self conscious.  Funny, she never had before. 

It’s been a week since her last scolding from Lady Mantillon. Briala is putting more of a thick salve over her cuts only the one on her back really needs it now; the one on her jaw healed almost overnight but Briala is meticulous about making sure Celene heals as fast as possible, and with the cut being near her face, below her mask line, she wants to be sure it heals perfectly. Celene winces as Briala’s finger, slick with the salve, rubs over her wound. It is hardly visible anymore, but it’s still tender.

The smell of elfroot hangs in the air.

“Why do they call it elfroot?” Celene asks, hoping that as an elf Briala would know. The elf shrugs. Apparently she has no idea either. Maybe it is something to do with the shape of the leaves. Maybe elves have their own word for the plant. Maybe they call them humanroot or dwarfroot. Both of those names sound ridiculous, but Celene makes a mental note to look it up sometime. There is nothing she enjoys doing more than learning new things. Maybe if Mantillon’s plan of making her Empress doesn’t work out she’ll go on to be a scholar in the University of Orlais. Maybe she would do both.

“Celene?”

She looks up, and finds Briala staring at her, holding her towel ready for her to get out of her bath. Celene supposes she must have looked at her maid rather quizzically, because Briala seems to feel the need to explain herself, “You have a lunch with Duke Prosper in an hour, I had better get you dressed and ready.” 

With a deep sigh Celene pulls herself from the metal tub, rose petals clinging to her naked body as Briala drapes the towel around her shoulders and wraps it around her. She watches the elf grab another and stands still while she dabs at her hair gently over the cut and then at a normal pressure everywhere else.

“Briala, is it ever strange to bathe me and dress me?”

“Never, why?”

Celene doesn’t know why the thought suddenly occurred to her, and she tells Briala this as she is dried and the petals pulled from her body carefully. She just thought of it suddenly and decided to ask, but it does seem strange to her all of a sudden that she is washed and dressed like a child, by someone who is younger than her and who gets herself ready for the day alone before Celene is even out of bed in the morning. Of course, it is just the natural order of things to those who are born, like she was, into luxury. Briala counts herself lucky to have her position, and her mother would have said she should have, but Celene wonders if there was ever a time when Briala longed for more. Not that she would ever ask and risk the answer being yes, she doesn't know if she could bear to be away from her friend.

“You’re almost done,” Briala tells her, “Just lift your arms for me.” Celene doesn't question the order, but wishes she had when instead of the towel running up and down her arms she feels Briala’s fingers. She squeals and jumps away from her, wrapping her arms around herself so the handmaiden can't tickle her again.

After that there is little to do besides the routine of getting dressed, petticoats, corsets, stays, garterbelts, bodice, skirts and then the sleeves. It all happens in a well practiced blur that’s almost a dance for the two of them at this point. Briala hums as she works, a sweet tune that her mother taught her. Celene half remembers the words to it, and hums along where she can with a smile.

“Are you busy in the evening?” she asks. It is Briala’s free day, the one day of the week where there is no question of Celene asking her to run errands or do chores for her.

Briala looks thoughtful for a moment and then shakes her head. Celene beams and sits down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Well then will you meet me after my meeting with the Duke?” she asks. Briala nods as Celene hugs her.

She’s ready to be leaving through now, and Briala walks with her to the door. “Come meet me outside the hall,” she instructs her handmaiden. She’s about to have the guard close the door behind her when she holds up a hand to make him stop dead. “And Bria, don't forget to wear something pretty if you still want my help.” She lets the guard close the door before Briala has a chance to say anything. She’s proud of herself for finally getting the chance to ask Briala to meet her. She has a plan, one she whispers to a passing maid who nods and stops what she is doing to head to the gardens instead as ordered.

It doesn't take any time at all for her get down to the banquet hall, which is where she will be entertaining Duke Prosper. She had ordered her staff to provide a vast array of foods, both sweet and savoury. When the doors are opened for her she smells the food first, the spices and the sauces, and then sees it, piled up on plates, in bowls and dishes.  Duke Prosper de Montfort is already tucking into a fresh roll of bread, covered with a thick spread of butter. He almost drops it as she walks in, rises to his feet and bows low to her as her seat is pulled out and tucked in behind her. 

She feels good, sitting on a red velvet cushion and rearing her finest silk gown as a maid places a white napkin over her legs. 

It’s too warm for velvet today, even if it is the most in fashion material right now thanks to that fool Florian who sets the fashions to amuse himself. Last season it was bright oranges and pinks and greens, all dyed to artificially Celene could hardly bring herself to leave the safe confines of her estate unless she was required to.

But Duke Prosper is looking magnificent in his velvet doublet and leather riding leathers. Celene assumes he rode all the way here from his precious Chateau Haine.

“My beautiful cousin,” he greets her, moving to take her hand a place a kiss upon the ring she wears on her right ring finger - her mother’s ring - before she gestures for him to take a seat once more and resume his eating. “It is wonderful to see you in suck fine spirits, truly you are a vision from the Maker himself for my sorry eyes.”

“My fine Duke, your words flatter me. Hush now, or you will bring a blush to my cheeks before our luncheon is even begun!” She means it too, she can already feel herself struggling to maintain the stoic yet sweet smile Lady Mantillon has all but beat into her. 

Prosper chuckles as he helps himself to another piece of lavishly buttered bread, wiping away the creamy spread from his facial hair as he turns to speak again. “I’m glad the Lady Dowager has had such an impression on you.” It’s all Celene can do to smile courteously at the compliment and nod, thinking of the cut on her back. “And I’m ever so glad to see you invited her too! You’re looking ravishing as always my Lady, why you haven't changed since I last saw you.”

Celene pales, looks slowly over her shoulder where Prosper is focusing, making it look like she is simply turning to welcome the unexpected addition to their dinner. “Yes, I thought it best to make sure we include Lady Mantillon. I could relay your words, but it would not e the same as hearing it in your own voice.”

They wait while Lady Mantillon is seated, a napkin spread over her lap much as one was over Celene’s. The lady smiles between them both. “Lovely to see you again Duke Prosper, it really has been far too long. Tell me, how is your young son, Cyril doing.”

And just like that she is part of the conversation. Celene joins in when she has to, but she wants nothing more than to leave them to it and go back to her rooms, anything to be away from that woman.


	6. Chapter 6

They stay in the banqueting hall even after the plates have been cleared away, even after the sweets and creamy pastries have been taken from them. There is so much food left, and Mantillon knows Celene is too weak willed to let it go to waste. She will have the best sent to her rooms later for her and her elf to enjoy, then the rest will be distributed through the kitchens and servants. Of course the cook will get the best shares, she was the one who slaved away and ordered the lower servants around as they prepared the meals.

Mantillon accepts this as just part of having a young princess, but resents having such a limited window to beat it out of her, literally if she must.

“That brings me to unfortunate news that brings me here at such short notice,” Duke Prosper announces as his conversation with the young princess seems to draw to a close. He is addressing both of them now, like the conspirators they were. “The Emperor has ordered me back to Val Royaux where I will be attending his Imperial Majesty in his every need.” He pauses for a moment and sighs, running a hand over his bears and around his mouth like he is in deep thought.

For months now Prosper and Mantillon have been Celene’s biggest allies, helping her gain favour with the people and the nobility, making sure that if she were to ‘tackle the lion’ as Prosper had so poetically put it, she would be ready and the Orlesians would rally behind her instead of her cousin Gaspard. Even if he is the rightful heir to the golden throne, not all monarchies work how they’re meant to. Look at Fereldan all those years ago, the Emperor usurped by a bandit king and his lackeys.

“It is surely a scheme,” Celene asks him, her face suddenly darker. The Dowager delights in seeing the solemn side of the princess, finally taking some responsibility and acting like the leader they will need in the coming years. “Surely Florian doesn't intend you to go just to serve him, he has countless other dukes and vassals he could call upon.”

“No, this is more than that. He wants me away from you my dear girl,” Prosper is scowling now even beneath his silverite mask. He’s obviously very upset by this turn of events, and so is Celene. Mantillon on the other hand knows she has the skill to guide Celene where she needs to be even without the help of the Duke. his absence will hurt them, but their efforts will not be crippled.

Celene sighs and, as much as it is a faux pas in the Game or orlais, removes her golden mask and sets it down on the table. “We have nothing to hide here, we are comrades all of us in this play.”

Mantillon and Prosper follow suit. If she had done this in a public dinner with guests outside of this tight circle Mantillon would have taken her aside, shaken her back to her senses and sent her back into the room to apologize before the bruises started showing. This was one of the rare few occasions where the Dowager might actually respect her choice, even if she didn't fully approve. Celene was the princess after all.

“So Prosper, you come to my estate simply to tell me that you will no longer be able to attend these private dinners I throw for you?” Celene asks, “Why not send me a letter, I’m sure you could afford a courier fast enough to deliver news to me within the week at least.” She’s annoyed, good this is how Mantillon wants her. Ready to strike, like the viper she is being trained to become.

Prosper casts his eyes down in apology, reverence almost, as his young cousin stares him hard in the face, brows drawn together ever so slightly. She is not free with her expressions, but neither does she forsake them completely now her mask is gone.

“I meant only to bid you farewell, my sweet cousin. If Florian suspects anything, this could be the last I see of you for a long time to come. My heart could not bear never having seen your grace before I left.”

Celene softens at this, but it is a ruse. The Lady Dowager has trained her well in these past months, harder than she ever did in the years gone by. She sit’s with a morbid curiosity of where this will go next. The princess holds up her hand and calls over one of the servants with a flick of her wrist, a little knife ear girl who stands stiff as Celene whispers something and then nods with a squeaky “Yes, your highness,” before she turns and scurries away. Prosper pays her no mind, looking instead at the table and scraping his thumb nail over a splinter in the wood absentmindedly. He’s a good enough player of the game, but it seems he doesn't feel the need to be playing while he is in such amicable company.

How wrong he is.

“And while you are there you will still be sending your letters to me,” Celene states, “I’m not mistaken am I?”

Prosper shakes his head, bowing as he replies, “Of course not, young princess.”

“And add into your letters, if you will, reports on the Emperor. His business, his deals, his health, his military plans, anything that might help further this cause of ours. You would still help us wouldn’t you? All might fail without your involvement dear cousin.” Even out of the mask Celene is becoming a master of the game, far quicker than any of Mantillon’s other students. She is impressed as she listens to the exchange, as Celene twists the Duke tightly around her little finger. It’s a good thing her elf friend isn't here to listen to the beloved princess manipulating the poor man so unashamedly. Sometimes the Game is played with subtlety and other times it is with brute force. Only a true master knows when each should be applied, and in what measure.

Mantillon tunes out Duke Prosper’s frantic agreements. She can already tell Celene has won, and how could she not. She is using the same tricks the Dowager herself taught her, the same wiles and charms mixed with an ample amount of outright blackmail. She’s heard all these lines before, different voices and reasons but it’s the same old tune.

Mantillon knows this dance all too well to fall to its sway now.


	7. Chapter 7

Briala stands waiting outside the banqueting hall silently, not enjoying the looks the guards and other servants give her as she lingers in the corridor. She thinks she must look like she’s eavesdropping, with her back against the wall and so close to the door, but really she’s just hoping Celene would be finished soon.

The doors open slowly from the inside, the guards inside the hall pushing while those on the outside step to the other side of the corridor and quickly snap to attention. Princess Celene walks through the doors first, but Briala doesn't have a chance to say anything to get her attention before a man and woman step out of the hall behind her. She flattens herself against the wall, recognising Lady Mantillon and assuming the man must be Duke Prosper de Montfort.

The three nobles say their farewells, Mantillon seems to be planning to retire back to her rooms in the guest quarters. The Dowager casts her a sideways look as she walks by, eyebrow raised as she regards the elf in her finest gown. Briala feels suddenly very self conscious, and wishes she could fade into the wall like she can in her usual drab clothes.

“WIll you let me accompany you for a tour of the gardens, cousin?”the Duke asks. Briala feels her heart sinking.

Celene laughs and puts a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid not, I have a pressing matter to take care of. Feel free to walk the south gardens at your leisure, but the north gardens are currently off limits. I’m having a beautiful new bed of roses planted and the walkways are overrun with gardeners.” she smiles sweetly and, while Duke Prosper bows deeply Celene flashes Briala a more playful grin. It brings a blush to the young handmaiden’s cheeks and she looks down quickly.

The duke makes his way from the corridor once he is dismissed, and Celene turns to her guards. “Leave me,” she commands. They seem apprehensive, but them go as commanded, marching down the hallway and out of sight.

She finally turns to Briala with a light smile.

“How was your lunch, your highness?” Briala asks, the term of address feeling odd on her tongue. She’s not used to calling Celene anything other than Princess or her name, they have been friends long enough that the girl allows her that much familiarity. Even Lady Mantillon doesn't just call her by her name, and Mantillon is well known for crossing boundaries. But with the possibility that someone could be around any corner Briala plays it cautious and refuses to be caught out.

Celene nods. “It was splendid,” although her smile seems forced, “Come along Briala.”

She takes the handmaiden’s arm in hers, links herself to Briala as she starts to lead her down corridors and stairs, past open and closed doorways. The house seems so empty now that Briala is wandering past rooms she had half forgotten existed. Celene leads them right out the garden doorway, probably the same way Duke Prosper had gone, not bothering to have Briala use the servants entrance. 

They step out into brilliant summer sunshine, the grass and flowers so vividly bright that Briala has to stare at the gravel path for a moment before she can even think about taking it in. Celene breaks the link in their arms and reaches to a servant who stands at the side of the doors. He is a human boy, his cheeks burning red from the sun, but he hands the parasols over without any hint of complaint and then heads indoors. Briala hopes he will have someone see to his sunburn.

It’s odd, walking through the gardens with Celene, both of them holding powder blue parasols over their heads to stop the sun from beating down on them. She’s sure she shouldn't even be holding this, let alone using it, and it feels all the heavier in her hands for it. “You really must stop fidgeting,” Celene quips, putting a hand over Briala’s and forcing her to hold that parasol steady.

Briala blushes again.

“Are you alright, Bria?”

The girl nods, “Just the warmth, your highness, I’ve been inside all day by an open window.”

Celene laughs and makes a comment about how she wishes she could have just sat by a window all day. It sounds like she didn't enjoy her lunch as much as she’d like to pretend, and Briala has a good idea why. She doesn't need to say anything, but if Celene mentions it she’s more than willing to listen. For now she’s content to just be guided around the gardens, shoulder to shoulder with the princess.

“Isn't the north garden off limits?” she asks as the princess opens the gates and motions for her to step through. The gravel here is made of small blue glass beads, they crunch together like normal gravel as they walk on them. 

Celene shakes her head. “Not for the princess.”

Briala grins. Of course, Celene can go wherever she likes, wherever she pleases. It’s her estate after all, she owns everything from the gravel to the walls to the people inside the buildings. This is all hers, Briala is all hers. That thought makes her feel odd, belonging to someone. But then, what else should she do if she didn't belong to Celene. The princess is good to her, hadn't always been but in recent years they have come to realise the value of their friendship.

“Here we are,” Celene says happily, moving to a white wooden bench set out in the middle of a clearing. Behind it is a fountain that shines various colours as a mage light beneath the water flickers from blue to red to green and back through the cycle. In front of it is a table, covered in a cloth and covered with what Briala assumes is the leftovers from the lunch Celene just had. There are mountains of food, piled up on such a small table. Sweets and confectionaries sit on one plate, pain au chocolat and sweet croissants and brioche swirls, and on another is stacked a pile of finger food, small sausages and delicate sandwiches with various fillings and skewered fruit slices, cheeses and meats and all the kinds of food Briala is suddenly very hungry for.

Celene takes a seat, sets her parasol in a stand on the bench arm made specifically for that purpose, so the shade is still being cast over her exposed skin, and chuckles as Briala awkwardly copies. “Like this,” she explains, as she shows Briala the proper way to put her parasol into the stand at the right angle to protect her already sun darkened skin from the sun. 

“Please, eat!” she invites, “I had this set out for us.”

Briala takes a few hesitant nibbles on a pastry and Celene smiles, doing the same. They laugh as they catch each other’s eyes. This is what friendship is like, Briala thinks, when you take away status and nobility. It is the kind of friendship she wants with Celene.

The kind she cannot have.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I hope you've enjoyed the read  
> Let me know if you did, I love hearing from you guys! It's nice just to yell about the characters in the comments, although you're more than welcome to praise me too :p  
> Catch you in the next one!


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